I steered straight for the centre of the Poughkeepsie bridge, and passed a hundred and fifty feet above it. The entire population of Poughkeepsie had turned out, apparently, and resembled swarms of busy ants, running here and there, waving their hats and hands. I kept close watch for the place where I had planned to turn off the river course and make a landing. A small pier jutting out into the river was the mark I had chosen beforehand and it soon came into view. I made a wide circle and turned inland, over a clump of trees, and landed on the spot I had chosen on my way up to Albany. But the gasoline and oil which I had expected to find waiting for me, were not there. I saw no one for a time, but soon a number of men came running across the fields and a number of automobiles turned off the road and raced toward the aeroplane. I asked for some gasoline and an automobile hurried away to bring it. I could scarcely hear and there was a continual ringing in my ears. This was the effect of the roaring motor, and strange to say, this did not cease until the motor was started again. From that time on there was no disagreeable sensation. The special train reached the Camelot field shortly after I landed and soon the newspaper-men, the Aero Club officials, and the guests came climbing up the hill from the river, all eager to extend their congratulations. Henry Kleckler, acting as my mechanic, who had come along on the special train, looked over the machine carefully, testing every wire, testing the motor out, and taking every precaution to make the remainder of the journey as successful as the first half. The gasoline having arrived, and the tank being refilled, the special train got under way; once more I rose into the air, and the final lap of the journey was on.